Students from Afghan

I had a student once, from Afghan,
The past tense is disturbing, considering the place and time,
But he left, after completing his course, he had to.
Until that point, that place was just desert and Taliban-
He changed it for me, with his endless enthusiasm.
I used to wonder why he travelled from so far away, with his young wife,
I couldn’t help but appreciate his sense of adventure.
He worked hard, learned the pattern, got pass marks every time-
I watched him build himself and his life, thread by thread, like a well woken fabric-
He had his daughter, while studying, and I thought ‘oh wow’, a dad so young.
He loved his studies, wife and daughter, pursued all with complete dedication.
I heard, he used to tell his friends here, ‘you live in heaven, do you realise?’,
None of us did, until it was time for him to head back.
His student passport expired, so did his scholarship,
His exams were conducted before his peers, he wrote it alone,
His send-off was conducted online, because of the lock down,
He could no longer stay back; his post-graduation was done.
He headed back with everything he got, to his homeland, riddled with war,
While on a rare call that connected, he mentioned how his daughter cried endlessly,
Because of the ceaseless sounds of gunfire and explosion.
The last clip he sent by mistake on WhatsApp was that of screaming men and gunshots-
He has lost everything, his home, his land, confined to a camp.
I read stories of other students here, some mused of the hopelessness of heading back,
Some fears their certificates and degrees, some too disturbed to talk,
All will have to head back as and when their passports expired.
This war is real, can we really ignore, such good beings, with a zest of living, caught in hell?
Is there really nothing we can do for them?

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